My niece
made me bangle
of letters, stars, unicorns|
and colored beads

Then it hit me
that's her poem to me
a set of random things
that sit beautifully
side by side
around in a circle

and I noticed that
that's the first time
someone wrote
a poem
about
me

the pram gliding across the lake

water lilies in bloom

summer

i want to talk about you
to everyone i know
i want to shut my mouth
and keep you to myself
my heart flares up
explodes with thoughts of you
and i can't catch the words
and i can't catch my breath

I'm too emotional
Good luck to my future wives
And their future lives without me
You guys will do great!
I'm sure that I've prepared you for every guy you'll date
And every guy you'll marry
And every guy you'll hate

what i’m longing for
is the opposite
of what i have now
a bustling house
with life, smiles & frowns
cats lurking in corners
and soups on the stove
warmth in the air
and hearts full of hope

there is a sense of hope
i can feel it truly
don’t know where it comes from
hold on, it’s holy

nothing compares
to the lightness of being
just one little firefly
is enough for
escapes to be seen

i need to preserve it
so precious and perfect
protect it from ember
and scream: i deserve this!

Sometimes
Give the poems in your head
Some rest.

Don't write them on,
Write them off.

Internally arrange a funeral
Bid them farewell
Give them an unceremonious burial.

The rising poem won't complain
They know well your anguish and pain.

The labour you go through birthing them
Shape their body, give a name
They would understand.

Failed poems are not as arrogant
As the birthed ones.

They too are weary pounding your head
Making holes in your soul
They would rather rest than be born.

Sometimes
They deserve rest.

Let them float away to a place
Where they find peace
And will not be missed.

We used to talk about
going
to Montana--escaping it all,
building a log cabin and
making a garden.  We were
going to hunt and fish for
food--make rugs and
hats from the fur.

But look at us now.
You live in the
city and drive a Volvo.
Goldfish in a glass bowl.
You even taught your
cat to walk on
a leash.
Can you see the
sky with all the smog?

I'm not any better.
Living under the bridge;
the only hunting I do is
for cans, the rare and
illusive
aluminum nickel, so that
I can buy *****.  

I walk down to the
river's edge and look up at
the expansive sky.
I close my eyes.
And when I open them, baby,
we're in Montana.